


Lotrips Ficlets: 2004

by AirgiodSLV



Series: Lotrips Ficlets [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-08
Updated: 2005-02-10
Packaged: 2019-07-20 11:07:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 11,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16135958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: Forthepsychicclamand the snippet chain, which is actually doing quite well for a half-cocked idea.Warnings:  Pain, blood.





	1. Strike

For [](https://mcee.livejournal.com/profile)[**mcee**](https://mcee.livejournal.com/)’s ‘default icon’ challenge.

DM/EW ~ R ~ Fiction

For them, it’s always been about restraint. As in, they never have any. Neither of them are naïve enough to think that it’s about love, although they do have that, in the form of friendship. But no, it’s always been about the fire in Elijah’s eyes, the itch under Dominic’s skin, the fact that they can’t be alone in a room together for more than five minutes before the clothes start coming off. Most people would probably call it chemistry. Or sex; the slippery friction of skin-on-skin, the panting and moaning and guttural cries like animals in heat. It’s like that, every time…there’s no tenderness, no play, just sweat and bruises and “Oh god yes” when one of them hits the right spot. It’s like a lightning strike, fast and sudden and overwhelming. Dominic would sell his soul for Elijah when he gets like this, all struggling breaths and scratching jagged-edged fingernails and sharp teeth sinking into the flesh of Dominic’s shoulder, chanting “harder, deeper.” And somehow it’s never enough.


	2. Incendiary

DM/EW ~ PG-13 ~ Fiction  
_Sequel to[Strike](http://www.livejournal.com/users/airgiodslv/20122.html)_

“You’re _tan,_ man,” Elijah exclaims when he meets Dom at the door, grinning just as brightly as Dom remembers. There’s no way to escape the hug, not that Dom wants to; both of them move into it automatically, with the ease of guys who have been separated and reunited for the past four years on a regular basis, often in front of flash bulbs.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been in Hawaii,” Dom points out self-consciously, hunching a little as they pull apart, and Elijah starts to say something, and Dom tries to cut him off – control the conversation – before it can get awkward, and somehow Dom’s head has turned slightly, and Elijah has stepped forward, and they’re _right there._ Where Dom didn’t want to be, although maybe he secretly did, which is what it feels like with Elijah’s eyes wide and wondering, the heat of his breath misting on Dom’s lips.

 _We’re not doing this again,_ Dom thinks, but they already are. Elijah’s lips are on his, and Dom’s arms are pulling Elijah tight against his chest, and the kiss is every bit as intense as the ones in the dreams that Dom still has about New Zealand, and L.A. after that, and strange foreign cities with impersonal hotel suites all over the fucking world.

Elijah moans, and Dom forces himself to pull away as the vibrations travel through his lips and into his throat. “We shouldn’t do this again,” Dom says reasonably, ignoring the fact that his breath is coming fast and there are spots of colour in Elijah’s cheeks. “We said we wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Elijah answers, but his eyes are liquid and hungry, rippling heat, and Dom doesn’t care what they should or shouldn’t do, because his body remembers Elijah’s skin and the way he’s always grasping after more, _more,_ and the sounds he makes when Dom is touching him.

“Do you care?” Dom asks abruptly, deliberately shoving away all thoughts of Hawaii, and schedules, and a plane scheduled to depart much too soon. Elijah shakes his head, and Dom exhales hard before pulling Elijah against him again, mapping out Elijah’s mouth – familiar territory, as if they’ve never been apart – with his tongue. Elijah gives as well as he takes, always has, and Dom’s back hits the wall with a thud when urgency suddenly overrides courtesy.

If Dom’s honest with himself, they never had a chance of saying ‘no’ anyway.

They never could.


	3. Juxtaposition/Refraction

_For[](https://arabia764.livejournal.com/profile)_[ **arabia764**](https://arabia764.livejournal.com/)  
Elijah/Billy - PG  


When they’re in character, the roles reverse. Suddenly Elijah is the older, the wiser, the world-weary. Billy is the younger, the naïve, the innocent. Elijah always forgets until he sees the transformation, until their paths intersect somewhere along the borderlines of actor and character.

Sometimes, tumbling out of one mindset and into another, looking at Billy is almost like looking into a mirror. Seeing himself overlapping someone else as they pass by on their own journeys.

It’s in one of these moments, with both of them half in-out of character, that Elijah-Frodo leans over to kiss Billy-Pippin. Soft and sweet, with the innocence of youth and the bittersweet experience of age combined and fluctuating between them.

And it’s in the moment after that one, startle-eyed and with Elijah about to stammer an apology, that Billy tilts his head to the sky and laughs.

  


* * *

_For[](https://sophrosyne31.livejournal.com/profile)_[ **sophrosyne31**](https://sophrosyne31.livejournal.com/)  
Dominic/Orlando - G  


The hairs on the top of Orlando’s head are beaded with rain, shimmering strands of aquatic glass, and when fat drops of water fall on a strand of hair, it springs up in response, catching the raindrop and curling tight around it like a snapped guitar string. The drops refract the light; tiny prisms winking like a rainbow halo over Orlando’s head as he tosses his hair back and laughs.

And Dominic’s stomach clenches hard and sudden around the _want_ , as Orlando curls, snaps, springs.


	4. WIP Amnesty

Orlando/Elijah, PG-13. Unbeta-ed.

When Elijah was very drunk, and very tired, he licked.

Not one or the other, it had to be both. When he was just drunk, he was loud and excited, giddy. When he was only tired, he was cranky and immature. But when he was both, he curled up into a ball and just…licked.

Whoever was there, whatever skin he could reach. Soft, tiny licks with a rough tongue. Maybe it was the salt. Or the warmth. Or the contact. Whatever.

Orlando had learned to be the space Elijah fell into when he needed to lick.

He was too late tonight. Elijah was in Dominic’s lap, tongue stroking repeatedly over the side of Dominic’s neck. Dominic was deep in conversation with Billy, one hand gesturing and managing his drink, the other holding Elijah in place, loosely embracing and absently caressing, fingers rubbing the fabric of Elijah’s thin shirt into folds and then smoothing out the creases.

Orlando looked away, didn’t want to get lost in the jealousy of Dominic’s fingers on Elijah’s waist, Elijah’s tongue on Dominic’s skin. Not in the middle of a cast gathering at the hobbit house, where far too many people would be likely to notice and question. He was about to go looking for another drink when the telephone rang.

“Dom, it’s for you,” Sean called from the kitchen, and Dominic broke off from whatever he was saying and made a face.

“Yeah, all right. Can someone take ’Lij?”

They were all used to it by now. It had been a bit of a shock the first time, causing a misunderstanding and a mild scuffle, but by the third time it happened, a month or so into filming, everyone had come around to the idea that the licking was just a weird thing that Elijah did when he was drunk and tired, and from that time on whenever Elijah needed to lick, someone was there.

More than half of the time, it was Orlando, but no one had caught on to that yet.

Orlando wondered if Elijah realized that he licked, or if he was completely oblivious. He seemed so innocent when he did it, eyes closed, cheeks slightly flushed, body limp and relaxed. Ethereal. He had no idea of the effect that he had on people.

“Here.” Orlando slipped into the space that Dominic was vacating before anyone else could offer, accepted the weight of Elijah’s body as Dominic passed him over to Orlando’s keeping.

“Thanks, man.” Dominic flashed him a smile and headed off towards the kitchen.

The couch was warm where Dominic had been sitting, plush enough that it shifted instantly to conform to Orlando’s body, eliminating the imprint of Dominic’s. Elijah agreeably allowed himself to be moved into Orlando’s arms, nuzzling for a moment before settling completely, and then Orlando felt the wet flicker of a tongue against his collarbone, and his stomach tied itself into knots.

“Hey,” he murmured in greeting, and Elijah made some sort of sleepy noise in response, not actually articulated, but Orlando could feel the hum of vibration through Elijah’s ribcage, his throat, his lips open against Orlando’s skin.

They didn’t move for over an hour. Orlando chatted quietly with the other cast members present, voice lowered so as not to disturb Elijah, drank a glass of wine that someone had thoughtfully provided, and listened to the music that intermittently made its way through the buzz of conversation; but half of his attention was always focused on the warm body in his arms, expanding and contracting with each even breath, wet warmth bathing his collarbone and drying in the cooler air of the room.

Eventually the company started to dwindle as people said goodnight and headed home, finally leaving Dominic, Billy, Orlando, and Elijah, who seemed to have drifted off to sleep.

“You want help putting him to bed?” Billy asked considerately, pausing for a moment with his arms full of empty bottles and paper napkins.

“No, we’ll be okay. Thanks, though.”

As reluctant as he was to give up the intimacy of Elijah’s breath tickling across his chest, Elijah’s scent saturating his shirt, Orlando knew that it was time to leave. With a whispered warning to Elijah, Orlando gathered the pliant body to him and lifted, cradling Elijah in his arms as he carried him the short distance to the bedroom. As he was placing Elijah on the mattress a muscle in his back spasmed in protest, and he inhaled sharply.

“Orli?” Soft whisper muddled with sleep, the closed eyelids fluttering but not opening.

Orlando took a deep breath, willed himself to relax as the pain receded to a bearable level. “Yeah, it’s me. Go back to sleep.”

Elijah made another soft noise in response, thick with contentment, and for a split second Orlando’s stomach clenched on the knots that Elijah had tied there an hour before. Before he could over-think and talk himself out of it, Orlando leaned in the short distance to Elijah’s face and pressed a soft kiss to the barely parted lips.

Sweet warmth, and then the flicker of a tongue as Elijah delicately licked. Orlando held still for a moment, inhaling Elijah and feeling again the slippery touch of Elijah’s tongue against his lips. He wanted to pull away, to ask Elijah whether he was really awake, to figure out just what exactly they were doing, but that tongue swiped once again along the crease of Orlando’s lips, and this time he gave in and opened his mouth, welcoming Elijah inside.

It was soft, and wet, and so unbearably slow that Orlando was nearly going mad, but he held still and allowed Elijah to make the moves. Touch of a tongue against his now, as Elijah licked up its length and across the back of Orlando’s teeth. Orlando swallowed a moan and licked back, chasing Elijah’s tongue as it retreated and tightening his hold on the body still in his arms.


	5. Transience

_Transience_  
OB/EW - R

 

Orlando is dreaming. He knows that, is aware that even as he stands in a clearing surrounded by trees and sunshine, he's also in his bed, with Elijah lying naked beside him and the sugar-sweet traces of two lines of cocaine on the bedside table.

Elijah is here, too, in the dream-forest...or at least that's where Orlando assumes he is, something like a meadow...but he's not naked. He's clothed in white, bright and dazzling, and a part of Orlando knows that Elijah, in the dream, is dead.

It's strange to know that, especially as the dream-Elijah is standing and staring at him, but Orlando doesn't question dreams. What you _know_ in dreams is more important than what you see, always, and he knows that Elijah is dead.

Which is what makes it odd when Elijah's white robes turn red, stained with blood that starts in bright crimson spots and then spreads, and Orlando's stomach flip-flops sickeningly as Elijah continues to stand there and stare at him. Not accusing, but serene.

 _You can't bleed_ , Orlando thinks. _You're dead_. But Elijah bleeds anyway, until a thin stream of blood trickles down one leg to stain the earth he's standing on, and then he crumples.

The world shifts, twists.

Orlando always thought that if death was a void, black and empty, then it would only be fair for those left alive to share in it. There shouldn't be a leftover font of regret to haunt the living, only darkness and peace.

Elijah is at peace, Orlando assumes, as he stares straight ahead of him at the stone table that Elijah lies on, cold and still; skin smoothed into the perfect purity of death.

There are two rows of candles on either side of Orlando, forming an aisle that leads to the stone table, casting orange-tinted shadows across the path and Elijah's ivory skin. Orlando sees the flicker-flame in the corners of his eyes as he walks toward Elijah, a Legolas-glide to his steps, like a mourner in a procession.

There are fresh flowers in his hands when he looks down, so he casts them at the base of the bier and waits. Elijah is supposed to sit up now, he thinks. This part of the dream is supposed to end.

 _You're not dead_ , he tells Elijah silently. _Wake up_.

But nothing happens, and Orlando stands in confusion looking at Elijah's still form until he finally realizes that Elijah isn't going to rise, that his eyes aren't going to open. He really is dead. And Orlando can't reach him, can only stand before him with the scent of wax and flowers in his nostrils, covering the musty odour of death.

Because Elijah really is dead...

Orlando wakes with a gasp, disoriented and with a headache that speaks of the crystal-edged aftermath of the drugs he and Elijah shared a few scant hours ago. Elijah lies beside him, unmoving, and for a long, terrible moment Orlando wonders if the dream was real. But then he sees the shallow rise and fall of Elijah's ribcage as he breathes, and he drops back onto the pillows with a soft curse, overwhelmed and giddy with relief.

Elijah sighs and shifts, his body warm and soft with sleep, and Orlando rolls to hold him for a moment, to feel his heartbeat beneath Orlando's hands and his breath whispering out gently between parted lips. He presses his forehead to Elijah's naked back and squeezes his eyes closed. Strange, the power of dreams. Over the mind, if not the world.

After another few seconds, once his pulse has returned to normal and the numb fear of the dream has ebbed, he dismisses it as drug-induced paranoia. Nothing is going to happen to Elijah. Or to him.

Orlando rolls over and falls back asleep.


	6. Letting Go

_Letting Go_  
DM/EW - G

 

"What did you get him?" Dom asks, casting about for a tie in the wreckage of his bedroom.

"A cactus," Elijah replies, shrugging. "I couldn't think of anything else Western-themed."

Dom snorts, finds the tie he's looking for and threads it carefully through the collar of his dress shirt. "We don't have to go, you know," he points out, watching Elijah in the mirror. "Viggo won't mind."

Elijah meets his eyes in the glass, watches Dom casually while he lounges against the doorframe, immaculate as always. "It's his first big film since Rings," Elijah replies. "We should be there."

"Yeah," Dom answers. He finishes the knot and hesitates, smoothing his jacket. For some reason it's easier to talk to Elijah like this, reflected and unreachable. It hurts less than seeing that distance when Elijah is right in front of him. "Do you think he'll know?" he asks after a moment, no longer meeting Elijah's eyes in the glass. He can feel them on him, considering.

"Probably," Elijah answers finally. "He already knows we're not living together."

"Right," Dom answers, feeling foolish and nervous, with a longing for something that no longer exists. It's not Elijah, exactly. It's the past that he wants. In the present, Elijah is nothing but smoke that has already slipped through his fingers.

"Are you ready?" Elijah asks behind him, and Dom pulls himself together and turns, mustering a half-smile.

"Yeah, sure," he responds, forcing it to be casual, and walks to the doorway. He takes the cactus from Elijah just for the brief moment of contact, for the glimmer of used-to-be and might-have-been. Elijah still makes him wish.

"You can drive," Dom says, already moving past Elijah and down the hallway. "I'll grab the card."

Letting go has always been the hardest part.


	7. Good-Luck Charm

_Good-Luck Charm_  
DM/EW - PG

 

Dom is a bundle of nerves all morning, waiting for a chance to talk to Elijah alone. When he finally sees Elijah excuse himself to Peter after one of their character meetings, it only takes another moment for him to do the same with Billy and pelt down the dirt road after Elijah, who is presumably heading back to his trailer.

"Elijah, man," he calls, breathing a little rough around the edges, although he's not winded. He slows to a trot when Elijah pauses, and grins. Elijah matches his smile without hesitation, and the gap between his ivory teeth makes Dom's stomach trip slightly at the sight. "Hey," he says in greeting, playing it casual to make up for the fact that he's still breathing hard and has just chased Elijah down the road without explanation.

Elijah's smile redoubles, amusement glinting in his bright eyes. "Hey, Dom," he answers, obviously on the edge of laughter. To his credit, the expected giggle doesn't spill from his lips. "What's up?"

"I was just wondering, if...well, there's a club the boys wanted to go to tonight, if you're interested." Dom shifts in place, but holds himself back from scuffing his toe in the dirt. He has some dignity left, even with Elijah's silent laughter rendering him nearly tongue-tied. "Or if you'd prefer, rather, we could hang out. There's a bottle of wine in my icebox, if you, y'know, if you want."

Elijah's smile dies slowly as Dom finishes, and by the time Dom stutters to a halt he knows that whatever Elijah says, it won't be what he wants to hear. He has to hear it anyway, clings to hope and gazes earnestly into Elijah's eyes.

"Dom..." Elijah says gently, looking awkward and unhappy, "That was...last night, it was just a one-time thing."

Dom's good-natured smile freezes in place, as if it can't yet register the meaning of Elijah's words. "It was..."

"Dom, I don't...I don't fuck around with co-stars, man. It's asking for trouble." Elijah's eyes are pleading for understanding, but Dom doesn't have any to give. He's confused, and still staring at Elijah like maybe this is all a joke.

"But last night..." Dom argues, and then doesn't have anymore to add to that sentence. Elijah didn't promise him anything, truly. Dom had just assumed. Had been taken in by those beguiling eyes and made a gamble that even now he wasn't so sure he regretted.

"Last night was a, a kind of ritual, Dom," Elijah offers, shrugging uncomfortably, and if this is an explanation, it's not making a lot of sense yet. "It's something I've started doing on every shoot. For luck."

He's looking at Dom like this is a reasonable thing to do, and suddenly the bewilderment is gone, replaced by the heat of embarassment and rising anger to cover it. "A ritual?" Dom snarls in disbelief. "You fuck your co-stars as part of a bloody ritual?"

A blush rises in Elijah's cheeks, pink and sharp, but he's quick to defend himself. "It happened on a set once, right before the shoot started, and that film was the best thing that ever happened to me or my career."

Dom stares in complete disbelief. "Are you really _that_ superstitious, Elijah?" he asks, stunned that what meant so much to him apparently means so little to the one he shared it with.

Elijah holds his eyes, unrepentant, but there's a touch of annoyance in his voice when he speaks. "I'm an actor, Dom," he points out patiently.

Dom can't think of a single thing to say to that, but he feels that he still has to try. He throws the only thing he has in his arsenal, and knows even as he says the words that it won't be enough. "I cheated on someone for you," he says, and it comes out like an accusation, an attempt to pierce Elijah's aura of sympathetic reserve.

Elijah's expression softens, but it's not something he can apologize for and they both know it. "I didn't know," he answers honestly, and Dom can't understand why the ground is still crumbling beneath him. "If I had, I...well, you were the one I wanted."

He says it so easily, in a way that means everything and nothing at the same time. "Well, you should have picked someone else," Dom snaps, and has the bitter satisfaction of seeing Elijah flinch. He turns to hide what may very well be tears in his eyes, although they're more from anger - at Elijah, at himself - than pain or heartbreak. There wasn't enough time for Dom to fall in love.

He might have, though. And that stings his eyes a little as well.

"Dom," Elijah says behind him, but he only walks faster, hands shoved stubbornly in his pockets. "Dom, I'm sorry," Elijah's voice calls, but it's farther away now. Elijah isn't following him. And he won't. Dom knows that now; he should have known it before.

On his way back, Dom takes the time to wonder bleakly how something that hurts this much could possibly be for luck.


	8. Art/less

_Art/less_  
VM/BB - G

 

Viggo sketches in his mind, sometimes, when he doesn't have paper and charcoal. When there's a moment to be captured without the available medium to capture it. He freezes it, draws lines and shades in the colours, and it's enough to satisfy him. It's a way of passing the time, between endless takes and extended bouts of waiting just off-set to be called. It's practice.

He draws endless frames of Orlando, in various states of vibrant emotional enthusiasm, and in the lost stillness of his character. He pens Dom, because Dom moves too quickly to capture with charcoal, even in his mind, and because snapshots would blur. He paints Elijah in watercolours, because there is no justice in rendering him without the brilliance of his eyes. He only captures Elijah in profile, though, because Elijah's soul is in his eyes, and Viggo knows better than to try and capture that.

He draws Billy most of all, because Billy comes with layers. Billy comes with colour in his cheeks like ripe apples, and the scent of the salt-sea, and mischief of the kind that children have before they become adults. His accent rises and falls like music when he speaks, and his laughter carries through the air clearly enough to turn Viggo's head, wherever he stands.

He draws Billy because he can never capture all that Billy is with mere words or lines, and that's what makes it all the more intriguing to try.


	9. August, 1924

[set in the lotr_speakeasy universe]

_August, 1924_

 

If there's one thing that Elijah has learned to avoid in his short lifetime, besides young ladies with too much makeup and aggressive fathers, it's priests. He's not religious, or at least not to that degree. He's taken communion, was baptized, and done all of the necessary religious indoctrinations as a boy, and then he left for Princeton and stopped bothering.

And then he lost Josh, and any faith he still had at that point died along with him.

The priest he's eyeing, therefore, is not being viewed as a religious figure, but as a conquest, and Elijah isn't even sure that he's necessarily worth it. The boy is gorgeous, to be sure; a riotous blond halo of ringlets, clear blue summer-sky eyes, and buttermilk skin with just the tiniest dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Elijah takes a final drag from his cigarette before dropping it onto the ground and grinding it out beneath his heel.

Will he, won't he.

The young man looks up from where he's greeting parishoners to meet Elijah's eyes, and whatever he sees there makes him blush, hot enough that Elijah can see it from twenty feet away where he's reclining on the brim of a fountain. The churchgoers file in, oblivious, and eventually the young priest tears his gaze away and returns his attention to them, although the occasional glances in Elijah's direction give him away. Elijah smiles to himself and trails his fingers through the water idly, biding his time.

He looks up in surprise when someone sits beside him, another man garbed in the black robe of the clergy. The priest is older than the one Elijah has been watching, but with humour-lines written in the curve of his mouth and warm laughter in his murky blue eyes. The Father of this church, then. Elijah had thought the other was too young.

"Would you not rather be inside than outside?" The priest asks, offering a smile. The cross around his neck swings when he leans forward, wooden symbol carved with simplicity. "I assure you, the view is much better from the pew."

Elijah blinks, startled, and it's a measure of how off-guard he is that the priest sees his expression and laughs. "Come now, the clergy aren't blind to the appeal of mortal flesh; we simply choose to resist it." He winks, tilting his head meaningfully in the direction of the younger priest. "I know well what's caught your eye. But if it brings you to the church, then who am I to speak against it?"

Elijah has barely recovered his balance before the priest's words throw him off again. He opens his mouth to stammer something...an excuse, or even a denial...but the older priest waves away his unspoken words with a gentle hand. "Father Edward," he introduces himself with another knowing smile, the laughter twinkling in his eyes.

Elijah blinks again, and manages to find some of his usual grace. "Elijah," he returns without really thinking about it, studying the priest's face with no little confusion and slowly growing suspicion. He won't be swayed into attending the church service, which is what he's sure Father Edward is after. No sweet-talking priest is going to get him inside of those cold stone walls.

"Elijah? A good Hebrew name," Father Edward muses, eyes still sparkling. And then his face changes, so quickly that Elijah is taken off-guard yet again, and he realizes that his suspicion must be apparent, for one trained to read souls and confessions. "Are you sure you won't join us?" Father Edward pauses, considering. When Elijah doesn't respond, he adds gently, "There's more than your flesh to be satisfied within those walls, you know."

Elijah's first line of defense has always been anger to cover vulnerability, and he draws on it now. "I'm not in need of your succor," he says, more sharply than he intended. Father Edward doesn't flinch, doesn't react at all, really, to the violence of Elijah's outburst, except with a sympathetic frown.

The last thing Elijah wants is sympathy.

"Your soul is in pain, whether you admit it or not," Father Edward points out, and Elijah's wariness redoubles, body rigid and expression guarded. Father Edward must see that his tactics are having no effect, because he sighs and doesn't pursue it further. "I'll leave you to the warmth of the morning, then, my child," Father Edward says gently, rising and shaking his robe into arrary with a graceful twitch of his fingers.

Elijah feels the sting of confusion and defeat, and lashes out in the way he's most familiar with, using desire to control. He's reached his limit with this nonsense, and he won't let anyone, especially not this handsome, smiling priest, pretend that they know him. "I could have you," he challenges, leaning back just enough to stretch the fabric of his shirt and slacks tight across his body, playing on the flash of attraction he sees in the priest's eyes, deliberately posing in a way that father Edward won't see as anything other than provocative. "I could have both of you."

It doesn't get the reaction he wants, though; only a sad smile and a shake of Father Edward's head. "You couldn't have either of us," he counters gently, "because you seek to possess, and you won't let yourself love."

Elijah reels, loses his anger and his argument all at once, and sits wordless as Father Edward makes the sign of the cross. "Be well, my son," he intones, and then hesitates. His eyes look into Elijah with more insight than Elijah gave him credit for possessing. "Christ forgives you, child," he says, and then turns to make his way leisurely back to the church and his congregation.

Elijah watches him go, still in shock, before the response comes unbidden to his lips.

"I don't."


	10. Follow

_Follow_  
BB/EW - G

Billy and Elijah take to each other as if they’ve been life-long friends, which doesn’t surprise anyone more than it does the two of them. They hang out together constantly, gang up on the other members of the Fellowship where pranks are involved, have joke-contests and music exchanges, and in general create such a cheerful havoc that no one really minds that a part of their attention is always focused on the other.

Elijah, for his part, sees Billy as a role model, kind of like a cool older cousin, only without the blood-ties and bullying. Billy, by contrast, seems oblivious to the near hero-worship, but some part of him recognizes that Elijah fits neatly into a niche in his life that no one else has ever filled as well.

The beauty of their relationship is that there seems to be this unspoken, implicit understanding of the way things work when they’re together. They never talk about it; they don’t have to. It just _is_ , the way friendships very rarely are, and while they don’t take it for granted, they don’t need to dwell on it, either.

Billy decides where they’re going for lunch, and Elijah doesn’t even ask, just relaxes in the passenger seat and plays music, changing discs when Billy makes a comment about not really liking the song. Billy orders when Elijah can’t make up his mind immediately, and even though Elijah ends up with chicken cordon bleu when he thinks he may have wanted a hamburger, he doesn’t really mind.

Billy takes his wineglass when he thinks Elijah has had enough, and even though Elijah pouts and pleads and argues, eyes shining with laughter, he never complains. And Billy always stops drinking when he tells Elijah to, just to be fair, whether he’s had as much or not. They switch to water and have just as much fun inventing dirty stories about past conquests that no one at the table will ever believe.

Billy leaves paperbacks on Elijah’s chair in the makeup trailer, things that he thinks Elijah will like, and Elijah always reads them just so that he can discuss them with Billy afterwards, even if he sometimes skips to the end or skims boring chapters. He watches the movie version of _Hamlet_ instead of reading it, for the sake of time and because he’s exhausted from filming, but Billy catches him on it when they count dead bodies and Elijah includes Osric. Elijah defends himself by saying that Shakespeare was meant to be performed and not written, and Billy ruffles his hair and lets him get away with it, but there is a copy of _Manfred_ on his chair the next day.

It’s not until they go out clubbing that Billy finally gets it, what Elijah has known all along, when he sees Elijah pressed up against Orlando laughing, their hips moving together to the rhythm of a bass-driven remix, and Orlando leans down to lick Elijah’s ear. Elijah’s laugh turns breathless and surprised, and Billy growls, low in his throat. Orlando throws his hands up and backs off, with a last wink for Elijah, and Billy realizes that his right hand has curled into a fist and that he’s two seconds away from hitting a good mate.

Billy stops himself, eyes widening, ready to stammer an apology. And Elijah laughs, bright and sweet, and pulls Billy in to take Orlando’s place, still moving loose and free to the music, and says, “no, no, that’s what I want.” And Billy finally blinks in understanding, watching the light in Elijah’s eyes as he follows Billy’s lead, switches smoothly into Billy’s way of dancing. Billy smiles, and Elijah falls into place.


	11. Year-King

_Year-King_  
VM/BB - PG-13

 

The Summer King arrives just before dawn; and when he does, Viggo is waiting for him. He knows without needing to ask, knows even without the scent of roses and the garland of sunflowers that adorn the man’s neck. He knows it by the aura of power, the light burning from the man’s very skin. He is the Sun.

“Litha,” Viggo says, and the other man nods. Viggo wishes that he didn’t sound so tired, _feel_ so tired…that it was any other day but this.

“Your Majesty,” the man says, and Viggo smiles faintly because yes, he still has that much. The Summer King has not been crowned, and will not be, by any other hand but his own.

“Come here,” Viggo says, “and tell me your name.”

“William,” The Summer King answers, and his smile is as glorious as the force he personifies. “Billy.”

“Billy,” Viggo says, because that name is the true one, the one full of laughter. There is no place, in this season, for the somberness of the other. Viggo takes a moment to simply look at him, this young successor. His will be the reign of prosperity, just as Viggo’s was the reign of wisdom. He shines with it, sweat on his skin from the dance, and perhaps from something else as well.

“Tell me, young stag,” Viggo says, with the dry amusement of old parchment and bay leaves, “Have you gotten any young women with child, this night?”

The young king-to-be blushes, and for a moment he is nothing but a youth, caught out by an elder in an act that on any other night, any but this, would give him cause indeed for blushing. But then he raises his head, and the power of the Sun burns so brightly in him that Viggo aches with it.

“I don’t know,” Billy answers, and then smiles. “I daresay we shall know by Lammas.”

“Indeed,” Viggo says in return, and cannot help his answering smile. “What have you come for then, young King?” It is a ritual question, and Billy’s eyes glint as he gives a ritual answer, still denied the certainty of his reign, confronted with the living proof of what he will become.

“That which you name me,” Billy says. “Your crown, and your wisdom.”

“Wisdom,” Viggo says, “Is not so easily given. It must be learned.” But even so, he is already gesturing, beckoning for Billy to stand before him.

Billy’s eyes widen when he comes nearer, when their faces are close enough for each to see the other clearly in the near-dark, the candle flames and false dawn the only light besides that which burns now in both of them.

“You’re so young,” Billy blurts out, and then he blushes again, and ducks his head.

Viggo smiles, and says nothing of that. He has never felt more his age than now, when the time is past for him to think of it. “You will be younger,” he says instead, and Billy looks up again, meeting Viggo’s eyes and finally nodding gravely.

“You are sure you want the crown?” Viggo asks, knowing already what the answer will be. Billy has no choice in this, no more than Viggo did when he was possessed by the spirit of the Sun at Geola, when the Wild Hunt swept him through the trees and onto the throne of the Year-King. Six months, and never has that time been at once so long and so short.

To his credit, Billy pauses, and looks into Viggo’s eyes with the wisdom of a king-to-be who has not yet had to learn what true wisdom is. “If you’d had a choice,” Billy begins, and Viggo smiles.

“If I’d had a choice,” he answers, the same answer that he sees in Billy’s eyes along with the question, “I would have chosen this.”

Billy nods, the smile still gone from his face, and his decision is written in the light that still pours from him, the waxing power that gives strength to his bones and his mind. “Then that is what I choose as well,” he says, and Viggo is at once filled with gladness and sorrow.

“So be it,” Viggo says, and the ceremony is back in his words as he presents the wreath of the Summer King, unworn for six months to the day, and Billy kneels at his feet to receive it.

“The Sun is crowned, in his full glory,” Viggo pronounces, and the echo of the words he once heard return to him, the memory of the last Summer King crowning his successor, saying, ‘All hail, the Sun is born.’

Billy rises, and the sparkle in his eyes matches the flush in his cheeks, the power rushing to fill him as the light from the approaching dawn increases. Viggo leans in to give the kiss of ascension, and that, too, Billy is eager to receive, tilting his face up so that Viggo can feel the heat rising from his skin in the second before their lips meet.

And right on cue, the song begins.

“They are singing in the Sun,” Billy says, and Viggo nods, just as grave. It is his turn to kneel, to offer up the braided crown of the Winter King into the hands of the one who will keep it, until it is the time of the next to be crowned. Billy accepts it with fear in his eyes, but Viggo knows he will not hesitate now, in what has to be done. The Year-Kings are born strong, and the Sun makes them stronger. Viggo, who had never in his life harmed another living being, had not blinked when it was his time. And he will not blink now.

“With the death of the old,” Viggo recites, and Billy’s voice takes up the words, gaining strength as he speaks.

“Comes the birth of the new.” Billy’s hands are sure when he draws the sword, lays the blade flat against the top of Viggo’s head, blessing and benediction. The singers’ voices rise in their chant, gathering power from the rising sun and the beginning of a new year. Viggo meets Billy’s eyes, and does not blink.

“Long live the King.”


	12. Ficlets x Four

  
**Payback ~ Orlando/Elijah – PG-13**  
_first line by[](https://kaydeefalls.livejournal.com/profile)[ **kaydeefalls**](https://kaydeefalls.livejournal.com/)_

Elijah's living room spins merrily around Orli, like he's on some kind of crazed carousel. And somewhere in the back of his brain, along with the faint chime of internal bells and the awareness of a chair catching him at hip level as he staggers back, is the shocked thought _he actually hit me._

Elijah is glaring at him when the stars stop dancing in front of his eyes and obscuring his vision, and the clenched jaw doesn’t register so much as the clenched _fists_ held rigidly at Elijah’s sides.

“You hit me,” Orli declares indignantly, and Elijah’s chin tilts up a defiant fraction of an inch, perfect profile just daring Orli to mar it.

“Take it back,” he orders, and Orli shakes his head, rubbing his jaw.

“I can’t believe you actually hit me,” he says again, and this time he doesn’t let Elijah repeat himself, just takes two steps forward and slams Elijah into the wall, crushing their mouths together.

Elijah struggles beneath him, but his tongue is actively stroking Orli’s even as the rest of his body squirms; and this time, when the punch comes, Orli catches Elijah’s wrist and twists it behind his back until Elijah moans into his mouth.

“No,” Orli breathes, as Elijah’s eyes dilate with lust and _want_ , but he thinks _yes._

  
**Burn ~ Billy/Elijah – PG**  
_first line by[](https://bunniewabbit.livejournal.com/profile)[ **bunniewabbit**](https://bunniewabbit.livejournal.com/)_

A sharp hiss slid from between Elijah's teeth. Billy looked up immediately, frowning, and jerked his hand away as soon as he saw the pain-creases around the corner of Elijah’s mouth. “Sorry,” he said instantly, knee-jerk fast, but Elijah just shook his head and forced a pained smile.

“It’s okay,” he answered, and Billy followed his eyes back to the long, shallow burn that ran diagonally along the length of Elijah’s forearm. His fingers crept back to it, fascinated by the split skin and discoloration, and before he could stop himself, his fingertips were again pressed into the wound.

“I didn’t know they could do that,” he exclaimed, pressing gently and pulling at the skin gently to get a better look at the light sheen of moisture, healing fluids that gathered in the crease.

“They get…really hot,” Elijah replied, and Billy glanced up a second time at the tightness in his voice. Elijah was looking determinedly at the wall, but his body was tense, and Billy eased his fingers away regretfully, still amazed but unwilling to cause Elijah further pain.

“Sorry,” he repeated, but this time he was surprised by the faint stain of color in Elijah’s cheeks, the way Elijah’s gaze remained averted.

“No, it’s not that,” Elijah said quickly, and the blush deepened, bloomed rose-pink on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. “It’s just…”

He stopped, and Billy frowned, and then noticed the slight tent in Elijah’s costume trousers. “Oh,” he said, and then, “ _Oh._ ”

Billy paused for only a moment, and then his fingers slid back up Elijah’s arm, over marred skin. Elijah’s eyes flicked to him, automatic, questioning…and then they both slowly smiled.

  
**Escapade ~ Hugh/Elijah – R**  
_first line by[](https://idiosyncratic.livejournal.com/profile)[ **idiosyncratic**](https://idiosyncratic.livejournal.com/)_

"Ah, fuck me." Hugh collapsed back on the pillows, eyes closed, mouth opened as he gently gasped for air. From the chair on the other side of the room, he heard Elijah moan, and then nothing loud enough to be heard over his own breathing until a few seconds later, when he cracked an eye open at the sound of stifled laughter.

Hugh couldn’t help his smile, and as soon as Elijah saw it he dissolved into giggles, no longer holding back. Hugh started laughing a moment later, swept up by the contagious fit of mirth Elijah was exuding, and felt his heart rate finally start to drop after what had to be the most nerve-wracking and breathless orgasm of his life.

 _I can’t believe we just did that_ , Hugh thought, but he didn’t say it; there really were no words for what just happened in this room, and he’s not quite willing to break the spell and make it real. It seemed like a good idea at the time…but then, both of them had been drinking red wine for the past three hours or more, and pretty much anything seemed like a good idea after that much alcohol.

Including, as it turned out, furtively jerking off with a complete stranger (well, Hugh knew who he was, but they’d never really met properly) in the bedroom of a past cast mate during what had turned out to be a fairly boring dinner party. It had only gotten interesting once Elijah caught his eye across the room and slowly smiled.

There wasn’t any etiquette for this kind of thing, as far as Hugh knew, but Elijah didn’t seem to care. He was recovered, it seemed, from his giggling fit, and tossed Hugh a handful of Kleexes while neatly cleaning himself up. The relief was overwhelming; at having actually done it, at not having anyone walk in on them, at not looking like an idiot by having one of them wimp out, unable to go through with it.

Hugh swiped himself clean with only the faintest flush of embarassment, and got himself under control just in time to look up and see Elijah watching him, eyes glittering with mischief and grin pasted unashamedly across his face.

Hugh returned the grin, heady with accomplishment and afterglow, and stood up from the bed to follow Elijah back out. There was a brief awkward moment when Elijah didn’t move when Hugh expected him to, and then they were only two steps away from each other, and Hugh found himself staring at Elijah’s mouth.

“I don’t think we should,” Elijah said softly, as if he’d read Hugh’s thoughts…not that it would have been hard, Hugh hadn’t exactly been circumspect about where his attention was directed. Elijah gave him a lopsided little shrug and an apologetic smile. “It would be too weird.”

 _Right_ Hugh thought immediately, _Like what we just did wasn’t…_ But it hadn’t been, in all honesty. There had been some brief fumbling, but after that it had been the most natural thing in the world, stroking himself off and watching Elijah do the same, colour slowly creeping over high cheekbones and brightening already-startling eyes as they got closer and closer to the finish.

It was the memory of those eyes that made him ask the question, his brain freeze-framing the image of Elijah’s face when he came, flushed with ecstasy and unbelievable childlike delight. “What about dinner, tomorrow night?” he blurted out impulsively. Elijah blinked in surprise, and Hugh struggled for words, blushing fiercely. “I mean, would that be too weird?”

Elijah stood very still for a moment, gazing at him and considering, and then the smile slowly returned. “No,” he answered finally. “I don’t think that would be weird at all.”

  
**Extrovert ~ Orlando/Eric – PG**  
_first line by[](https://azewewish.livejournal.com/profile)[ **azewewish**](https://azewewish.livejournal.com/)_

Orlando's never been the shy type. Josh might disagree…but then, Josh didn’t know the meaning of the word shy, and he would have argued the point just to get Orlando worked up. The two of them were good like that, friends that were close enough to fight and also to make up afterwards with nothing more than a clap on the back and a ‘yeah, man, I know.’

And okay, maybe Josh might have a point, since Orlando had gotten stage fright – so to speak – during Blackhawk and had carried his torch for Eric from a distance, while Josh had smoked and laughed and called him a pussy.

But he’s still not shy. He doesn’t have any problem talking to Eric, isn’t reticent about making conversation or going out with him for drinks after shooting. He just hasn’t come out and said what he wanted to say to Eric, which is basically a variation on _I want to suck your cock and then have you stick it up my ass._

He’s going to do it, though. He can’t stand the idea of an entire second shoot, this time with half of their scenes done together, and never coming out and said something. Coming out, indeed. Josh would be laughing his head off if he could see Orlando now, pacing back and forth in the wardrobe trailer, rehearsing his casual ‘wanna-fuck-me?’ speech while wearing something that looks like a Halloween costume made out of bed sheets.

If he doesn’t do it, though, he’ll pay for it later. Josh will call any day now, and if Orlando hasn’t done it by then, he’ll never hear the end of it. The sound of the door creaking open interrupts his thoughts, and he turns to see Eric walk in and head for the costume rack along the far wall, smiling briefly at Orlando in greeting on his way past. Orlando gives himself a thirty second pep talk, takes a deep breath, and heads for the rack.

“Hey, Eric,” he begins, the perfect opening line, casual and friendly just like it had sounded in his head…and then he sees the quirked corners of Eric’s mouth, the hidden smile and amusement in soft brown eyes, and something clicks.

“You already know!” he accuses, and sees his guess confirmed when Eric’s smile comes out of hiding, blossoming into a full troublemaking grin. “You bastard, why didn’t you tell me? And how did you find out, anyway?”

Eric folds his arms across his chest and leans against the wall, smirking, and Orlando’s cock gives an interested twitch. “Let’s just say a little bird might have mentioned it recently in passing,” Eric drawls, eyes alight with silent laughter, and Orlando has a tormented moment of being torn between affronted betrayal and hopeful relief.

“Josh,” he says flatly, and Eric just grins wider, and Orlando almost stomps out that very minute to call his so-called friend before he realizes that he still hasn’t actually gotten an answer. “So…” he prompts in what he hopes is a casual manner, but which somehow comes out sounding more anxious than seductive.

“So…” Eric answers mockingly, and Orlando nearly disappears in a puddle of misery before Eric relents a second later and smiles. “When’s your next on-set call?”

“Forty-five minutes,” Orlando answers automatically, and then pauses suspiciously. “Why?”

Eric stretches, wiry muscles rippling beneath his soft cotton shirt, and this time Orlando’s cock gives more than a twich in response. “I think we can do some damage in forty-five minutes,” Eric remarks with a sidelong teasing glance, and Orlando’s eyebrows raise in a combination of hope and disbelief.

“Now?” he asks, although his cock really doesn’t seem have any problem with that, and tells him so.

“Five minutes,” Eric says, and winks as he walks out. “See you then.”

“See you,” Orlando echoes in shock, and whirls to ask a question before realizing that Eric isn’t there. Eric is waiting for him. Waiting for _him._ There isn’t a thought in the world that he can keep the smile off his face, and he had better hope that no one stops him on the way to ask what he’s so happy about.

Although…five minutes. Orlando glances at the clock above the door, and then heads for the exit, chuckling. Just enough time for a phone call that he really has to make.


	13. Three More Ficlets

**Initiative ~ Dom/Billy/Elijah – PG**  
_first line by[](https://impasto.livejournal.com/profile)[ **impasto**](https://impasto.livejournal.com/)_

It was all Billy’s idea, really. At least, that’s what Dom said when Elijah looked at him like he was a complete git, and Billy looked like he was going to protest because it had, of course, been Dom’s idea (it always was), but Elijah got there first.

“You’re out of your minds,” he said in awe, or disbelief, or something along those lines. Dom hurried to correct him because it was in fact his idea, and he owed it a proper defense, and besides which he was of the opinion that it was a very good one.

“It’s sex,” he pointed out, the very picture of affronted dignity combined with wheedling. “What’s wrong with sex? You like sex, everyone does.”

“I like sex with girls,” Elijah replied defensively, and because they all knew that wasn’t true – well, it was, strictly speaking, but there was more to the story, and Dom and Billy had quite a few stories to tell – he amended, “And other people.” He recovered quickly, though, Dom had to give him that. “But not you two cunts!”

“What’s the difference?” Dom asked, because apparently Billy was letting him handle this one alone, was in fact standing a little to his right nodding in agreement but not really contributing. Not that it would have helped. But Dom gave Billy credit for the idea, anyway, so he supposed the actual persuasion was more his job. “A mouth’s a mouth, right?” He paused for a moment and then repeated the most pressing of his arguments. “Sex!”

Elijah looked at Dom and bit his lip. Then he looked at Billy. Dom could just see the Wood-wheels turning in his brain as he weighed ‘friends’ against ‘sex’. By the time Elijah’s brows drew together like two ruffled caterpillars, Dom was beaming because he knew what the answer would be.

“Okay,” Elijah acquiesced, and Dom looped an arm through Elijah’s and tugged happily on Billy’s belt loops to get them moving towards a bed.

“Billy has the best ideas!” he crowed, and neither of them felt the need to contradict him.

  
**Broken Glass ~ Cate/Orlando – G**  
_first line by[](https://acari.livejournal.com/profile)[ **acari**](https://acari.livejournal.com/)_

_Broken glass aside  
My feelings stay the same_

_\- Snow Patrol, Gleaming Auction_

Has there always been a crack in the mirror? She’s never noticed before. It’s bad luck, but Cate can’t imagine bad luck existing in New Zealand. Not here, anyway, amidst the magic of a film shoot that surpasses any other project she’s worked on.

She reaches out to touch the mirror, in the corner when there’s just the tiniest fracture in the smooth surface. Her own face stares back at her, perfectly made up and wigged, an otherworldly creature who just happens to share her eyes. Sometimes she finds it easy to sympathize with Galadriel, bearing the weight of a ring, completely alone. She feels more alone here than she ever has in her life.

There’s a picture in the opposite corner of her mirror, one of a very few, that shows some of the Rivendell Elves together, Orlando out of character and teasing a pouting Liv. She loves the boys dearly, all of them, but…if Liv is their princess, Cate is their queen; and they treat her as such, giving her a respect they don’t grant even Ian McKellen. Who is surely her senior in both years and experience, but who has somehow nevertheless managed to become one of them.

They bring her gifts, sometimes, in tribute, as she likes to think of it: snapped photographs and chocolates, a bird’s nest, or the delicate cracked shell of a fallen egg. She touches the shell briefly, feeling the sharp edge against her fingertips, and looks back at her reflection in the mirror. She wishes that for once – just for a moment – Orlando saw her as she saw herself.

  
**Sea Summons ~ Billy/Viggo – G**  
_first line by[](https://sophrosyne31.livejournal.com/profile)_ [ **sophrosyne31** ](https://sophrosyne31.livejournal.com/)

“I’ll be there at 8:17,” Viggo had said.

At 8:20, Billy had been ready to mock him, to say that he should have rounded out the numbers anyway, if he was going to be late. Save Billy from timing everything for such a precise, punctual moment.

At 8:25, he was frowning and thinking about dialing Viggo’s phone number, but he didn’t because it wasn’t that late yet, and besides, Viggo never answered anyway.

At 8:40, or roughly thereabouts, he started having second thoughts. It wasn’t as if they were committed or anything, and Viggo could very well have changed his mind. Billy shouldn’t expect too much. He should accept this, put the food in the refrigerator, and move on.

At 8:53, and Billy knew it was because he looked at the clock, he grabbed his keys and drove to Viggo’s beach house.

No one answered the front door, but Viggo’s truck was in the drive, so Bill circled the house. He found Viggo sitting on the sand, sketch pad blank and pristine beside him, camera out of the bag, but with the lens cap still in place.

Viggo didn’t look up when Billy settled beside him, and they enjoyed a companionable silence for a few moments before Viggo spoke.

“I was listening to the waves,” he explained, and Billy nodded understanding. “I knew when the time came, and went, but I wasn’t ready to go with it.”

“It’s all right,” Billy answered, and he wasn’t at all surprised to find that it was. “I came to you instead.”

The waves crashed, or something not as violent as that…less than a bang, more than a whimper.

“I wished you here,” Viggo said suddenly, and Billy blinked in surprise, tearing himself away from the waves and the moonlight and the solidity of Viggo beside him.

“Well,” he said then. “It’s a good thing that I’m susceptible to wishes.”


	14. Reunion

For the burgeoning snippet-chain, and [](https://thepsychicclam.livejournal.com/profile)[**thepsychicclam**](https://thepsychicclam.livejournal.com/), who requested [Dom/Elijah, Hawaii, reunited, belt loops](http://www.livejournal.com/users/thepsychicclam/1030790.htm).

* * *

  
It's not exactly the reunion Dom had in mind. He was picturing something with a little more fanfare, and much more intensity...dragging Elijah into the bathroom by his belt loops, maybe, slamming him against the wall, sucking his cock in record time, biting and bruising before they had to tumble into the cab and make it back to the hotel.

Instead, Dom is held back two hours in a last-minute publicity call that was supposed to be finished this afternoon, and Elijah's plane miraculously gets in on time, leaving Dom chafing and anxious as he speeds to the airport.

He finds Elijah in one of the 'inbound to Hawaii' lounges, sprawled across three hard plastic seats with his headphones half-cocked on his head and his cell phone plugged in to charge. Elijah opens his eyes blearily when Dom squats down beside him and lays a hand on his shoulder, and then smiles the most heartbreakingly sweet and half-asleep smile that Dom has ever seen.

"Sorry," Elijah murmurs, yawning and making no move to struggle upright as Dom rubs soothing circles on his back.

Dom's lips quirk, soft and gentle. "Don't apologize," he replies quietly. "It's perfect."


	15. Sin and Corruption

"Lap dance!" Orlando yells, and Dom shimmies in response, low-cut jeans riding below the waistband of boxers on his hips, sashaying his way across the room to where Orlando is ensconced in Elijah's favourite leather chair, while their host himself hoots with laughter and nearly falls off of the couch.

Dom's tongue pokes out as he teases, wriggling just out of Orlando's reach, swaying a few steps closer until he's straddling Orlando's knees. Orlando taunts him with a grape, waving it so Dom will dance in chase and then popping it into his mouth.

"L.A. is a realm of sin and corruption," Orlando declares, and Elijah toasts him from across the room as Dom drops to his knees, hand smoothing down the front of his shirt as he ripples, mysterious half-smile turning up the corners of his mouth. Orlando reaches out to trace his lips, and Dom ducks away, still smiling.

"Never could have done this a year ago," Orlando says somewhat breathily, and Elijah concurs, sliding onto the floor for a better view.

Dom tilts his head, playing bashful, while his hips push up suggestively against his own hand. He looks through his eyelashes at Orlando, arching until his chest brushes Orlando's knees.

"You can now."


	16. Near Miss

They're supposed to meet at the airport, but Elijah's plane is delayed, Dom hasn't eaten all day and refuses to dine on airport food, and Orlando calls to say that he's running late - which they already know, because Orlando is _always_ late, and when Elijah's plane finally gets in, he ends up stuck in the taxi cab from hell, which drives him the entire way across town before he realizes that they are heading to the wrong address.

"I'm in little Tuscany!" Dom's voice crackles over Elijah's cell, a bare minute before Orlando calls to say, "I'm at the airport, where are you guys?"

 _This is never going to work_ , Elijah thinks at one point, but the taxi cab gets turned around, Orlando knows where Little Tuscany is, and Dom swears to each of them five times over that he won't go anywhere until they find him.

"Happy birthday!" Orlando crows when he walks in the door, and Elijah start laughing, exhausted but suddenly not feeling it, as Dom's arms wind around his middle for an affectionate squeeze.

"We're never doing this again," Elijah proclaims, and Dom laughs and toasts them with two beers, one of which Orlando plucks from his fingers as soon as he reaches their table.

"Not until next year, anyway," Orlando replies, raising the bottle and winking. "Cheers."


	17. No Contest

"Fifteen!" Orlando crows triumphantly, and Sean is laughing too hard to speak, as the string of mardi gras beads Orlando has just thrown settles with a rustle on top of the others, hooked loosely around the neck of a beer bottle Orlando is using as his target.

"I should have been a jouster," Orlando declares, only wobbling slightly as he turns to find another string of beads. "Fuck archery."

Sean makes a noise of disagreement and clutches his string of gold king beads, looped over his neck and slithering inside the open collar of his white dress shirt. "You can't have mine," he insists. "You have to earn them first."

"Want me to flash you?" Orlando asks, but he's pretty much defeated the point of that, because his t-shirt is soaked from some prior escapade, and there's not a lot of his torso left up to the imagination.

"Something better," Sean determines, and Orlando gives him a thoughtful look before grabbing something from the table next to them, hiding it from view as paper-foil crinkles and he pops whatever it is into his mouth. He's on his knees before Sean's inebriated brain can catch up with him, sliding between Sean's legs with lips pursed and a devious glint in his eyes.

"C'mere, then," Orlando orders, sultry and patently seductive, fluttering his lashes for effect, and Sean leans forward before he thinks, cups his hand around the base of Orlando's neck and tilts his head back for the kiss.

Orlando's tongue curls out as their lips barely brush, passing the piece of chocolate with admirable skill and incredible coordination into Sean's open mouth. Sean holds him a second longer than the transaction requires, sucking the last trace of chocolate from Orlando's bottom lip, and when they part, he loops the beads over Orlando's head as well, binding them together.

"Yours," he agrees, and Orlando smiles.


	18. Kinked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](https://thepsychicclam.livejournal.com/profile)[thepsychicclam](https://thepsychicclam.livejournal.com/) and the snippet chain, which is actually doing quite well for a half-cocked idea.
> 
> Warnings: Pain, blood.

Elijah’s hand is steady as he presses the last mark onto Dom’s skin, the red felt tip of the pen dotting between Dom’s ribs in perfect relation to the other three. Dom’s hands twitch against the cuffs keeping him in place, reacting unconsciously to the surge of lust that strikes at the sight of Elijah’s tongue, poking between his teeth in fierce concentration. Elijah chuckles, gaze still on Dom’s bare torso, and shakes his head.

“Penetration kink,” he teases, an old joke between them, and Dom arches his spine in response, showing off.

“Higher,” Elijah murmurs, and Dom inhales as he stretches, ribs pressing outward against his skin. Dom’s still smiling when Elijaw swabs, liquid-cold and intense, and Elijah matches the grin with one of his own, eyes flickering to meet Dom’s before they drop back to what he’s doing. “Kinky fuck,” he admonishes lightly, and Dom snorts before he remembers to suck in his breath, arching higher towards Elijah’s hands.

Dom is about to reply, porn-star breathy and cliché, but he’s barely opened his mouth to speak when Elijah warns, “One,” and the first needle slides in beneath Dom’s skin. Dom’s breath whistles out in a huff of pain, and his eyes squeeze shut, so tightly that he sees stars painted behind his eyelids. “Ah, shit shit shit,” he hisses, and Elijah’s hands steady him, one palm on either side of the sharp intrusion, regulating his breathing.

“Too much?” Elijah asks softly, and Dom forces himself to relax, inhaling deeply and exhaling until the pain recedes somewhat.

“No,” he whispers, eyes opening blindly and focusing on Elijah for reassurance. “Do the next one.”

Elijah doesn’t hesitate, strokes his palm down Dom’s side and swabs again, cold and fast. The needle is in before Dom even has a chance to blink, stinging pain setting his torso on fire. “Breathe,” Elijah murmurs, and his fist loosely encircles Dom’s cock, stroking leisurely twice from tip to root. Dom exhales shakily, and with Elijah’s hand on his hip it’s easier, soothing him even when the third needle pierces his skin.

“Whose crazy idea was this, anyway?” Dom asks, voice strained, and when Elijah smiles, the pain is all worth it.

“Whose is it always?” Elijah counters, and the fourth pinprick blossoms slowly across Dom’s ribs, sliding in beneath his skin. The air leaves Dom’s lungs in a rush of breath and sound, soft “oh” as he’s pinioned, and Elijah’s eyes are dark with lust and amazement. “Jesus Christ, I want to fuck you like this,” Elijah whispers, and Dom’s cock jumps, throbbing when Elijah takes hold of it and squeezes.

“Take the needles out first,” Dom breathes, but Elijah is already stretching over him, tongue uncurling wet and languid into his mouth.

“Now,” Elijah murmurs hungrily, as Dom struggles to keep his breathing even, hands flexing impotently in their bonds. Dom bites his tongue when Elijah pulls the first needle out, making a soft, choked noise as the blood wells in a bright bead, blotting out the marker dot. Elijah’s head bends, and then there’s nothing but warmth and wetness as Elijah’s mouth closes over the pinprick wound.

Dom moans, bright and loud, and Elijah echoes the sound against Dom’s skin, extracting the needles one-by-one while Dom gasps, panting as Elijah’s clever tongue laps up the blood and sucks at his skin, blossoming bruises that Dom can already see and feel in his mind.

“Now,” Elijah repeats as the last needle slides free, and Dom writhes beneath him, thighs already parting to bring Elijah in.

“Yes,” Dom begs, back arching in gratitude this time, supplication, floating on a high that nothing else can touch. “Yes.”


	19. Sand

Five-minute porn, for [](https://acari.livejournal.com/profile)[**acari**](https://acari.livejournal.com/)  


Elijah/Hugh, [](https://lotr-speakeasy.livejournal.com/profile)[**lotr_speakeasy**](https://lotr-speakeasy.livejournal.com/)-verse, R

Elijah dreams of Hugh, in the desert, where neither of them remember Princeton or accusations or past lovers, and the sand doesn't sting their naked skin when they make love. It warms instead of burns, and trickles around Hugh as Elijah moves inside of him, cocooning them in tiny, finite grains. Hugh's throat arches, curls spreading across a sea of white-gold sand, and Elijah bites the corded tendons to hear the sound he makes, released into an open sky. There are no tears in the dream, and when Elijah wakes up, it is only to wish he could go back to dreaming.


End file.
